A book opens itself as much as it is read

As a mentioned in my last post, the phlebotomist at the clinic I spent time at was a memorable character. To me, she was a hidden story tucked away in a room between the kitchen and the area where patients were seen--a quiet yet bubbly woman who waddled in and out to get her blood draws. She would spend her free moments burying herself in a novel or knitting a pillowcases as wedding gifts for friends. Whenever I came by, I would trade pictures of my nephews and niece for her children. She always had stories to tell, beginning them as if they were a continuation of a previous conversation. What always struck me was how surprisingly detailed her succinct stories always seemed. Perhaps it was my vivid imagination that gave pictures to her words--images not drawn from prior experiences but perhaps conjured from a separate life that had merged with a collective conscience.

One story that struck me in particular was one that she shared about her mother when she passed away. She and her sister had decided to live with her mom during those last weeks trying all the while to hold themselves together emotionally. Alcohol was as as abundant as the grief. Mom used to bake pastries and pies all the time for the family, it became a family tradition of sorts. So during those last days, the two daughters baked pies for mom and when alone drank in the melancholy of the moment.

When I hear stories like this, my somber soul insists that somewhere therein lies a serenity that supersedes sadness. I can't quite grasp how this is logically possible, but if sacrifice can surrender to salvation, then something about this must be true.

Perception of Competency

During my M1 year, I shadowed a local rheumatologist in the area. She was pretty good at explaining concepts, most of which I wouldn't learn until my second year. I remember talking to her secretary and how she said that this doctor could have done anything she wanted: surgery, other medicine specialties...she was that good. Based on what I saw and heard from my personal conversations with her, I could believe it.

This past year I was able to spend some time in clinic with one of the FPs here in town. He worked at the federal clinic, and though I spent most of my time with my preceptor, I also had the chance to talk to the staff around the office. During my first week in clinic, the phlebotomist (who actually let me stick her because I needed practice drawing blood) remarked that "nothing seemed to faze him." Throughout my three weeks in clinic, however, I couldn't shake the feeling that there were many times where he wasn't sure what to do with certain patients or when I had questions, he didn't have an answer. To be fair, perhaps some of these questions were more geared towards specialists (I mean this is why they have extra training, right?) or the patient he had was indeed a difficult case. I could think of a plethora of variables to consider (town vs. gown, indigenous population, etc.) but the bottom line is that I began to realize that just like any other profession, there exists a wide range of competency when it comes to medicine.

I think this fact disturbed more because, to me, this seemed to insinuate that there are doctors out there who might be better off not practicing. I think about my own classmates and I see a wide range of ambition, competence, and motivation. I look at myself these past years and wonder where along this spectrum I will fall. I sometimes think that if people knew where doctors came from, we wouldn't be nearly as trusting of the medical profession as we are.

The second thought about all of this was the different levels at which people view their doctors. The FP had plenty of patients that had been with him for a long time and loved the guy. Certainly, this not only suggested that he was helping people medically, but that they saw something either about his personality or professional demeanor that led them to believe that he was doing a satisfactory job. The phlebotomist felt like the physician was always on top of things or at least in control. I, on the other hand, saw things differently.

the problem with blogging

I remember the first time I started this whole online "journal" thing it was like I found the golden ticket to meaningful mind dumping. Unfortunately, I soon realized that like most forms of electronic correspondence, this can easily translate to babble or really. bad. writing.

In addition to general negligence, I think part of my reluctance to write here is the ever present anxiety that comes with being vulnerable to an unknown audience. Context is so crucial when writing about anything meaningful that it can be the difference between generating incendiary remarks and constructive dialogue. I had a wake-up call a couple summers ago when one of my former co-workers said that my summer job boss came across one of my blog entries about my work experience. Of course, it was pretty much a harmless, feel-good post at the time but it has made me much more wary of the type of things that I talk about.

Still, in weighing the pros and cons of spilling out details of my life on the internets, I have decided that I would like to make a more concerted effort in keeping this thing going. This doesn't necessarily mean I'll be posting about that girl that I'm currently dating (because if I did, it would be, among other things, a total fabrication at this point) or like a twitter account.

Another reason for starting anew is that I will most certainly always find myself behind when it comes to corresponding to people individually (email, phone calls, etc). For those of you to who are waiting (or have given up on reaching me), my lack of responses have been due in part to a paucity of words these last few months. I find that especially this past year, written words are hard to come by. I won't blame school on this one but there is something about a style of learning that embraces study books and bullet point memorization that has squashed my expressiveness. Even when I journal on occasion, mind dumping comes at a much reduced flow rate and with much higher resistance--a "literary constipation" if you will.

So where to begin? I have finished my second year of medical school and am preparing for national examinations on the 24th. I won't bore you with all the details, but I have lost count of how many times I have asked myself if medicine is really for me. School starts almost immediately after boards and as of now, I am giving myself another year before taking any drastic action.

I have occasionally found myself at church on Sunday mornings, but usually sneaking out pretty soon after. It's been a unique experience for me in terms of the interactions I've had with the people there. The church is small enough that everyone is aware of me, but I think three of them actually have spoken to me or know my name. I recall the weekend of Palm Sunday where they were handing out palms during the last song of the service and one of the ushers got to my row with the palms (I was the only one in that row), stared at me somewhat awkwardly, and then moved on to the next row. The couple in front me of me actually got a palm for me, but looking back, I think this epitomized the type of detached relationship I've had with this congregation. Considering that the church is so small, I'm sure I am known as "that Asian guy that sporadically shows up."